


Marked

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry requires someone who understands him.  (Harry/Harry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

He is everything. He is nothing. He is singular. He is double. 

He has doubled.

He didn't expect to double. He expected Ron. His Ron. 

He expected Ron to be here, not himself. This is the Room of Requirement, after all, and Ron is what he required.

"No," his double says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You didn't require Ron."

"I did," he says. "I did."

"No. You didn't. Think."

Think. _Think_. 

He required someone who understood him. And he got-

Himself.

"Why?" he whispers, stepping away from his double.

"Because. You're too afraid."

"Of what?" he asks defiantly. 

His double's eyes flickered up to his scar. "Of letting him see you like you really are. Of being yourself around him. Of him finding out that you're marked. That you're marked a murderer."

"Shut up," he says in a low voice, eyes screwing shut as his chin drops. _Marked a murderer. Marked a murderer._

"Marked. Marked a murderer. Marked. _Marked_."

"Shut up shut up shut UP!"

"Marked. Marked murderer."

His double is circling him now, circling so close that their shoulders brush together and the double's breath is warm when he passes behind. Circling, circling, circling and chanting those words. Chanting those words that cut right to the bone, that _hurt_.

He doesn't want to be marked. He doesn't want to be a murderer. He just wants to be himself. That's all he's ever wanted.

"NO! Shut up! I'm not! I'm not! I won't! I'M NOT!" 

Blood is pumping through his veins now and he's hot, _so_ hot and his head is hurting - pain is searing and sparking and sharp and he can't take it. He _can't_. He doesn't want this. He never did. He never wanted any of it and it's all because of this scar. This fucking _scar_. Chest heaving, he begins to claw at that fucking scar, nails digging into his skin. If he can just get rid of it - make it go away... 

There is something warm trickling down his forehead and into his eyes. He can smell it and he knows it's his own blood but he doesn't care. He doesn't _care_. There has been so much blood already; his blood brought the bastard back and this will be the last time he will spill it because of that bastard. That is it. This is it. This is --

"Stop it!" His double was yelling now. Hands pulled at his wrists and there was shouting. He was shouting at himself, his double was shouting at him, and it wouldn't come _off_. 

"I CAN'T!" he yells back, wrenching his hands away, glasses askew on his face. Hastily he rights his glasses and attacks his scar again. Nails dig deeper this time and he can hear someone sobbing - _That's me_. - and he blocks it out as best he can. All that matters is getting this out, making it go _away_...

"You can stop it," a voice hisses in his ear. A voice hisses in his ear and then there is a vise-like grip around his wrists and he's yanked and hauled and his chest is pressed up against his double's. His own chest is pressed against his own chest and hands (calloused from countless evenings of flying without gloves on) pull hands behind his back. Breath that smells of chocolate frogs and peppermint toads - just like his - ghosts over his face and their noses are so close now, almost too close but not close enough. "You can stop it. Just like you're going to stop _him_."

"I _can't_ ," he chokes. 

"You _can_ ," says his double firmly. Cheek presses against cheek and breath tickles his ear. He shivers. "You can."

_No_ , he wants to tell him, _I can't. I couldn't save Cedric and I couldn't save Sirius and I can't even save myself. I can't keep Ron and Hermione safe. I can't do anything._

But he doesn't get a chance to say any of that. He doesn't get a chance because there are lips brushing against his. Lips - chapped and split and _his_ \- moving together. And it's odd. _So_ odd. Odd and a bit freakish. But wasn't that him? 

_Yes_. It is.

It is, and suddenly he wants this. He wants these lips that are his own to move with his and he wants this breath that is his own to breathe into his mouth and he wants he wants he _wants_.

_Yes_.

Hands fist in shirts and tongues run against lips chapped and split and needy before delving in. They flick and retreat and meet and flick again, then there is swirling and duelling and sucking and _God_. Somewhere along the way he loses his glasses and his double loses his glasses and there is tumbling, tumbling, tumbling. 

The floor is hard and cold and he doesn't mind at all. His double's body is warm atop his, his hands running all over him. He leans his head forward, resting it on a bony shoulder, sliding his hand beneath the other's shirt. He worries his lip; his double is so _thin_. He is so thin. So thin and frail and now he knows. Now he knows how he must seem to everyone else and he can't, can he?

"You can," says his double. 

He blinks and lifts his head, staring up at him. His double smirks and he understand. He is him and they are one.

One. One. Oneoneoneone.

_I can. Can't I?_

_You. Can._

His head snaps up and he looks at his double. Mouth curls up at both corners and both are smirking. Yes. Can.

He pulls the t-shirt up and off of his double. Can. His double does the same to him. Can.

Two identical thin fragile boys who are not fragile. They are _not_. 

The double moves quickly then, hands opening the zip, hands moving fabric down and out of the way, hands moving up his frame and over his face so slowly and he can feel the contrast of calloused and soft spots and it's brilliant. So brilliant. Breath hitches in his double's chest and he knows that sound well. He knows that sound well and so he moves, rolling them over to reverse their positions and doing the same to him.

And then.

And then they both.

And then they both move. 

They both move and it's more than he could have ever asked for and nothing he could have ever asked for and it feels. It _feels_.

Hands fist on each other's cocks and the angle is so odd but he doesn't care. He's wanked himself before, but not like this and likely never like this again. Fist fist squeeze squeeze thrust thrust fuck fuck-

" _Fuck_ -"

" _Fuuuuuck_."

"Yes."

Yes. Oh yes.

"Close your eyes."

"What?"

_Require it._

_Oh. Right._

He opens his eyes and there is a small pot of lube within reach. His double laughs and he can't help but to laugh, too. How surreal and ridiculous and perfect. 

It's cool and warm on his fingers at the same time - _odd, that_ \- and he works quickly, stroking himself and then working his fingers into his double. His double gasps and he gasps; he can feel both sensations at once - the way his fingers feel moving in the tight channel and the way it feels to have fingers moving inside himself and it's _fantastic_. It's fantastic but not as fantastic as it feels to push home. Push home. He _is_ home. His double pushes his arse down on his cock and he laughs. He laughs because if he doesn't laugh he'll cry from the absurdity and beauty and perfectionness of it all. 

_He is me and I am him and we are. We are we. We are one. And we move._

They move together and work together and build together. Tension mounts, and he knows it's close. It's close, and it's because of him. Because he could. Because he can.

His double writhes and then bucks up, back arching off of the floor. And that's when it happens. _He_ happens, hot heat exploding and emptying, and he can feel it leaving him and entering him at the same time, and it's so much and not enough all at once. Colours fade to black, and he collapses on his double, on himself. Sweat pours down his face in sheets, mingling with the blood he'd spilt earlier and he doesn't wipe it away, even when it stings his eyes. Sweat and blood, only missing tears.

There will be no tears. There will be no tears and there will be no more pulling and raking at his scar. 

He can do this. He can. He will.

When it is all over, there will be sweat and blood, he is sure of it. There will be sweat and blood and a scar - a _mark_ \- but there will also be him. There will be all of Harry.


End file.
